red feet upon the floor
by a vegetable
Summary: click click


_A/N: Nonsense stuff that came to whilst listening to F+tM. Title from What Kind of Man by Florence + the Machine._

It's heavy, all dark and smooth and cool; heavy and dangerous in your tentative hands. Curious fingers explore every crevice: smoothing up the barrel, twisting the unloaded chamber, running a thumb over the trigger guard, flicking finger nails at the hammer. You wonder where the silencer is, or if you remembered to pick up a new one. That doesn't matter now, you're examining not shooting.

Alone. You sit and fiddle with the weapon alone. It would be dangerous if it were loaded, even if the chamber contained just a single bullet one foolish slip up of an inquisitive finger could pull the trigger and have your blood splattered over the leather sofa.

TV flickers in the corner, screen all broken up and full of static thanks to the gentle storm that plays havoc outside. You may have been watching Star Wars, possibly you were just channel surfing, but the burbled noises spilling from the speakers are laboured enough to either sound like Darth Vader's breathing or commercial jingles contaminated by the faulty TV set.

Lights play games on the ceiling as the TV casts a pale white glow around the room and the shadow of a Colt Python drapes itself on the speckles. _Click click,_ the chamber twists in your fingers; the sound of imminent danger had your bullets not been scattered on the table rather than sleeping within the gun.

A soft screech of car tyres from outside and the patter of footsteps towards the building, the person walking swears into the hammering rain. Dog from the apartment below starts barking, loud, angry, and guttural; she needs to be trained. Silence all but for the patter of precipitation for a good minute or so. The creaking hum of the ancient elevator, the rattling of the grate being pushed aside, the heavy footsteps on the checked floor, clatter of keys pushed into the lock.

Pale orange light filters into the room, a figure - trench-coat clad, brief case in hand – saunters in, back to you. The gun is slipped back into its box; bullets roll in alongside it, slid underneath a cushion.

"They had me work extra hours." Gruff tone, rough with cold, needs to cough. He hangs up his soaking trench-coat, adjusts his hair barely still styled, and dumps the brief-case by the shoe box. "Five extra hours unpaid!"

You glance at the clock above the TV, it's 11 o'clock. He finishes work at 7. He's only worked four hours extra.

You don't say anything.

"You did get yourself dinner right?" he tugs at his shirt, damp fibres clinging to sallow skin. "If not I'll just chuck what's left over from last night's pizza in the microwave. English? Jake?"

He turns to you, hands stuffed in pockets, face set in firm lines.

"Did you eat or not?"

"Forgot." You mumble, stirring against the hard outline of a box beneath the cushion you lie on. A box with something dangerous in.

"Honestly." he sighs and leaves, flicking the kitchen lights on, making himself busy in there. The purr of the fridge grows louder as the door opens, bottles clink together and plastic packets crinkle into each other. Bottles are taken out, poured into glasses, tossed into the recycling bin. The fridge is closed again.

The microwave buzzes for a minute, pings and scents of something good waft into the living room.

He re-emerges, doesn't turn the kitchen lights off and keeps the door open, places two plates on the table, a slice of pizza on each. He goes back to the kitchen grabs the glasses, both filled with something brown, something alcoholic, and returns one last time to turn off the kitchen lights and close the door.

You decide not to mention that he didn't bring out any mayonnaise.

You eat in silence; he turns off the TV ("Damn static is getting on my nerves.") and puts a CD into the radio on the coffee table. Some obscure indie band you don't know the name of serenades the darkness of the living room, replacing the harsh crooning of white noise with high vocals and lyrics impossible to weed a meaning out of.

He licks his fingers clean of grease, knocks the drink back in one and wordlessly carries his plate out into the kitchen. Hissing of water as he washes his dishes.

Metal clicks gently against metal as the box with something dangerous inside is carried across the living room and placed on top of the highest bookshelf, he thinks you're not tall enough to reach it there. He has no idea.

Without the box sitting down is more comfortable, no sharp edges, no stiff lines, no clinking of movement. Fear of the weapon going off is common, but misplaced. It's never loaded. It has ammunition, but the bullets are never in the chambers. You're not stupid. You'd never keep a loaded weapon in the apartment.

But you'd keep an unloaded weapon with the means for it to be loaded.

"Don't bring in your plates then." he grunts as he returns, picking up your empty plate. The glass is still half full.

"Sorry, Dirk." It's not loud, but it's there. You're not talking about the plate; your eyes are trained on the box.

He ignores you, grabs the glass even though there's still drink, chugs it down himself. Struts back to the kitchen and begins washing, mumbling incoherently to himself.

He slips out of the kitchen and into your room without so much as a good night. Moonlight through the window and curtains fluttering because it's open just a crack. Broken sigh and rising to your feet, grabbing a blanket from the shelf beneath the coffee table, wrapping yourself up, resting on the sofa once more.

Sorry, Dirk.


End file.
